


When you eliminate the impossible

by DebbyBacellar



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alpha Sherlock, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Angst with a Happy Ending, Johnlock freeform, Love Bites, M/M, Omega Verse, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-29
Updated: 2016-12-29
Packaged: 2018-09-13 04:39:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9106969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DebbyBacellar/pseuds/DebbyBacellar
Summary: 95% of the world's population has a second gender, alpha, beta or omega. John Watson is not one of those 95%.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [Quando você elimina o impossível](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8423479) by [DebbyBacellar](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DebbyBacellar/pseuds/DebbyBacellar). 



> (***)   
> N / a: Sherlock has 25 and John 28. I don’t know why this is important, but is suddenly.
> 
> My English is not good and I hope I didn't make a big mess! Kisses!

[Chapter 1](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8423479/chapters/19301431) : John Watson and Sherlock Holmes

 

  
When you eliminate the impossible...

Synopsis

95% of the world's population has a second genus, alpha, beta or omega. John Watson is not one of those 95%.

By Debby Bacellar

 

**~ 1 ~**

**John Watson**

**(***)**

_Look at this boy, small, undernourished, only brought problems since he was born..._

John Watson inhales abruptly, trying to dispel the memory flooding his thoughts, obscuring his unfounded hopes that everything could someday be different for him.

 _Why does not he smell? Why is he so skinny?_  

His older alpha sister's voice reverberates through his ears, the distinct sound of her childlike voice still latent in his adult memory as if it had not happened nearly two decades ago. He recalls because this did not happen once, the question was repeated day after day, the question that his parents did not know how to answer or did not want to admit the most obvious and frightening answer. He did not smell because he was born defective. The years passed and the question instead of being said in the curious children's tones, became captious, intentionally malicious.

Harry was an alpha, taller, powerful, just like his father. Their mother was an omega, nothing to say pleasant about it when his family has the worst kinds of alphas that may exist. John knows, damn, he knows they are not all that cruel and domineering, but as he grew up it was all the definition that was created in his subconscious, clinging like weeds to his limbic system, discriminating the world as: bad alphas, weak omegas and thinking about himself as an aberration. He still had the hope in his teens that maybe he would be a beta, maybe life would not have such a terrible moody sense and would put him in the most neutral environment of all this biological whirlwind. But it seems that life does not care what he wants or needs. Things are what they are... And John don’t be. He is not an alpha. He is not an omega. Neither a beta. He is nothing.

His parents began to suspect that there was something wrong with John when he turned fourteen and nothing happened and there was no single clue as to what his second genre would be. Louise and Charles were a traditional couple in an alpha / omega relationship, bonded since they were both sixteen and Louise entered her first accidental heat in high school. It was difficult, and no, there was no love exchanged between them, only the chemical bond that would hold them together for the rest of their natural lives. Destroying the bond was possible, but it was an expensive, painful and life-threatening process, so they both just accepted their fate and resolved to follow their lives together.

Charles was an authoritarian and compulsively unfaithful alpha. Louise was submissive, accepting that at least she would have food on her desk and a bed to sleep on every night. Harry was born after the second heat they shared, strong, imperative, a beautiful, gray-eyed blonde girl.

Charles was not an alcoholic at the time, so there was money for good doctors. He did not want to wait for to find out what the second genre of his little Harriet would be, so he paid a small fortune for a gender test. He celebrated for a whole week with friends and family when he discovered that his little princess was an alpha, his firstborn came into the world to be a strong and powerful creature.

Charles Watson was not satisfied, however. He wanted more. He wanted a litter of big puppies, good specimens of males and females alphas as a good alpha should produce, but a year passed and his omega did not get pregnant even going in heats for each every three months. Again they went to the doctors to find out that it would be very difficult, practically impossible to have another baby because their omega’s uterus was damaged in the first birth.

It was just then that the problems really started. The fights, the aggressions, the psychological torture, the drunkenness.

And five years later, everything seemed unsustainable, but then miraculously came the second pregnancy. Charles Watson was again the worried alpha and Louise felt hopeful. Then their little Hamish was born. John Hamish Watson.

At this point in life, though, Charles became a compulsive drinker. He drank to drown himself in self-deprecation, drank to drown his sorrows, drank to not to be frustrated with the way his life had taken, drank to forget. There was no money to take the gender test on the young baby. He was a small, skinny baby, but he had the same hair and eyes as his father and his mother's nose. Louise fell instantly in love with the little being who was her little boy.

The years went by, fights raged, and it was in this sickly, unhealthy climate that Harriet and John Watson grew. Fourteen became fifteen and fifteen in sixteen, and after medical consultations they found out that John Watson would never be like the others because he did not have a second genus. He was not an alpha, not a beta or an omega. He would never smell an omega in heat, never have the mental acuity of a hardworking beta, neither could have the precious gift of giving birth to any child. He was a disgrace. An abomination. That was how Charles Watson saw his son, as a flawed investment.

John had barely turned seventeen when his father told him to leave home with little more than two hundred pounds and all his few things in an old backpack. Harry looked distressed but did not intervene and his mother at this point in life was too pale and too depressed to care about anything in the world.

So John put his pack on his back and promised himself that he would not be defined for what he was not, because he was first and foremost a man, a worthy human, it does not matter biology. And he would not let anyone downplay him, because John Watson, the little John Watson would be more than ever said that one day he would be able to be.

(***)

John Watson's life changed once again when all he could think of was to eat a bullet and end up with his pathetic life after returning from Afghanistan. He had managed to graduate in medicine, but he needed, craved for danger in his life and at the same time had an almost pathological need to care, so he joined to the Royal Army and became the captain in the 5th Northumberland Rifle Regiment. He was on his third trip and understood Farsi and Pashto and was an incredible marksman. The Army was his family. It was the place where he found himself. It was the place where don’t mattered not be alpha, beta, omega or  _anything_  , because bullets don’t care what you wear, the color of your skin, ideology, religion, much less how many pounds you have in your bank account.

There was a lot of terror, but there was beauty there too. There was agony in the sound of the gusts of fire, but peace in the blue infinite sky. It was hot days and cold nights and an eternal sense of alert, even during sleep. It was to feel alive, even with so much death around.

Then the bullet that went through his left shoulder found its way through his flesh, shattering the only way of living he had known for many years. It was physically and emotionally unbearably exhausting.

When John returned to London, everything around him seemed as on gray scales, even the constantly overcast sky seemed to confront him with the painful reality that awaited him. Here was not Afghanistan. Here mattered not the _man_ John Watson, doctor, former RAMC Marine. The only thing that set you up in a city like this was that your second genus defines how far you can go.

Omegas never a doctor - only nurses, good for breeding puppies, housewifely and weaks, vulnerable, in need of protection. Betas, who could walk in the highest clouds or the darkest underworld, their lack of biological impulses for procreation allowed them a freer life, diverse choices, no chemical link binding them to another human being - it would be good, perhaps, John thinks... And alphas, ah... Those dominate the world.

He picks up at times thinking about it, thinking that if he had a second genus, he would undoubtedly wish to be a beta. Alfas always gave him a bit of aversion. He lived with a father and sister who terrified him, minimized he daily - and most of the alphas he knew - even in the Army, they owned the world, although in a practical way the statement is reliable. Alfas, though attached to the omega, has no impulses for fidelity, and they can be with as many people as they wish. The highest political offices have always been occupied by Alfas, the need to rule seems to be something intertwined in their DNA.

... And alphas never was his area.

John had several relationships throughout his life. Betas women in their overwhelming majority, a couple of omega men for experimentation - just stealthy wank after the drunkenness in a dark Pub, but Alfas ... Never an Alpha.

(***)

There was a tattoo on his right bicep to remind his every day who he was - the symbol of the winged serpent wrapped around the sword with cable-shaped crown and the words "In arduis fidelis" -  _Faithful in adversity -_  forever indelibly marked in his body. There were also others that he put along the time - the cervical spine tattooed along his own, the vertebrae labeled with their proper names: morbid - his last girlfriend said. On the left pectoralis, the electrocardiogram lines of his heartbeat, a long stretch of minutes in which his heart muscle stopped his involuntary movements for two whole minutes, followed by the hesitant little beats of the resumption, then hit again after cardiopulmonary resuscitation and a shock with the defibrillator. The day and hour are marked in cursive letters just above the dark lines.

(***)

John remembers exactly the moment his life shook as if an earthquake of unspeakable degree rocked all his structures preformed, his opinions firmly believed and to be immutable.

He still remembers the feeling of walking with his cane down Barts' hall, his leg aching horribly - psychosomatic - according to his therapist, Mike talking inanities beside him, about how things have changed since their college years. Mike, good Mike, a quiet, affable beta that never mentioned the fact that he did not smell anything in John.

He'd spent the last few weeks dodging people, because the reaction of confusion was like a slap in his face. The inescapable questions about why he did not smell "normal" or the scandal stamped in their face when their realized that he had in fact no smell - in addition to the natural chemistry of his body mixed with his light lavender cologne - the same one he wore for more years than he could remember. It was at that moment, just as the morgue door opened that John's life changed forever.

(***)

He met Sherlock Holmes, Alpha, the only consulting detective in the world, alpha, powerful and magnetic genius alpha, and he already said, Alpha?!

He never liked this genus, he has never been particularly fond, or worse -  _fascinated_  - but it took only few seconds, few damn seconds to him to have a bright look on his face as the alpha spoke absolutely corrects and disconcerting deductions about his life, about his lack of genus, his military and medical careers, as if that’s things were merely quotations of facts, as if all this information could be easily read in his face.

It was brutal to hear, and at the same time he could feel the adrenaline pulse in his veins, heart racing in his chest, shallow breathing, the life brightness singing in his cells.

It was not rational - far from it - to decide to share an apartment in central London with Sherlock Holmes, but anything was better than his beige kitchenette, his uncomfortable single bed, and the depressing life he had been living with since returning from the war.

He warned Harry about his return, about the causes that brought him back, but only received a cold shoulder in response, as if her brother without genre was not worthy to even talk to her.

But now the decision was made, just a blink of an eye gray-green-blue eyes? Exotic and deeper, yes, for John to follow the crazy alpha wherever he led.

John Watson had a purpose again, and God help him, but he had never felt so alive before.

(***)

The relationship with Sarah had not worked out - obviously not sustaining the kidnapping stress and a boyfriend who left her in the middle of a romantic program to run after his crazy flatmate.

Running after thugs and solving crimes with Sherlock gave John a kind of joy that he had never before had in his life, the danger, the fascination of seeing the genius's mind in full force, the heat in the pit of his stomach every time that he saw Sherlock pledging his Alpha authority so differently. He was cruel sometimes, undeniable, but much more ‘cause he was oblivious to people's feelings than to purpose.

He could be anything because of the ability of his intellect, he could be king of a small country, or hell, he could be the greatest crime’s king in the world if his inclinations had fallen to that most evil side, but no... Sherlock Holmes made a living by solving puzzles (according to him), saving lives (according to John), being an arrogant little shit but without which he would be lost (according to his brother-in-law Greg Lestrade - omega and detective inspector - probably the only omega in the world in a authority position), being childish (according to Mycroft's world-dominating and his brother)... Just that it was not just that. It has always been much more than that.

Sherlock did not accept money or publicity to solve the cases. Sherlock held homeless people with lots of money for information that was not always worth the price he gave. Sherlock cares about Mrs. Hudson, an widow omega, with distinct affection and despite shouting to the four winds that he was a highly functional sociopath he really was not. He feels guilt, fear, boredom (a lot of this, but John wonders for a minute if this is really an emotion) lust... (a lot of this too - if the betas and omegas that go out of the flat in the middle of many dawns are any indication). He demanded that Sherlock isolates  acoustically his room, but Sherlock shrugged and told John that it was an _alpha thing_ and that he should not be a puritan about it, after all he was a doctor and it was just biology... Damn ...

Sherlock is intense. And John feels screwed.

It's not strange, not really that Sherlock has reached the age of 25 without being bonded. Some alphas are not made to be domestics, with a litter of puppies and office work. It's really fascinating that Sherlock is a wonderful uncle to his nephews Elisabeth and Edmund Holmes – Mycroft and Greg’s six-year-old twin sons, and Cassandra, his thirteen-year-old niece, Sherrinford’s daughter (the brother that John did not meet and whom no one talks about. He may be dead for all that matters, but when his name was said at a family dinner by Sherlock's mom (the alpha) - the face of Holmes brothers took on a contracted expression of disgust, as if they both had sucked lemon at the same time. Seconds later, Papa Holmes (the happiest omega John had ever known) took the conversation with grace for safer topics.

Sherlock certainly is not that kind of alpha – the domestic. He's the one who fucks - never makes love. He is the kind who knows how powerful, beautiful, intense he is and knows how to use that in his favor. And that leaves John's legs wobbly.

He realizes, however, when things start to change dramatically inside him, it's actually ridiculous. Everything in his vision becomes sickly green with jealousy and angry red.

John was sat in his chair, curled up in his fuzzy robe after an invigorating morning shower. Sherlock is far from being seen, so John figures he must have left early. Like Alice in Wonderland, John got into the habit of thinking about six impossible things before breakfast... He's scared when he realize that belonging to Sherlock Holmes in every way is at the top of his list.

He can not, even if he wants to. It's physically impossible. It's biologically impossible. It is impossible and period. Sometimes he thinks Sherlock sees him as a charitable case, the little man who tries to be bigger than he really is, the broken lead soldier he saved from committing suicide.

As a wounded animal, Sherlock brought him indoors, tended and fed (this part is quite questionable since Sherlock would not fry an egg to save his life). Sherlock gave him purpose, strange cases to solve, and encouraged him to work again. Sherlock laughs with him, but sometimes John thinks he sees something in him eyes, just for a second, and his heart burns as if he's on fire with hope that those looks can mean something else, that Sherlock will break the distance and kiss him until he forgets his own name... But then Sherlock walks away and a few hours later is inside his room, grunting and fucking like an animal any lucky human being of any genre that he can find... Promiscuous man.

John sees the door to Sherlock's room opening. His heart jump a beat when he realizing that it is the fourth time counting on this, that he sees the same person coming out. The small, brunette woman, about the John size (Janine, he remembers) come out wrapped in one of Sherlock's silk shirts that barely covering her body. Sherlock said it was for a case. John indicated that he seems to be amused enough and repeatedly to be just a case.

She walks over to Sherlock's armchair and puts the blanket of the couch on her lap, covering her shapely legs - not that this will prevent John from seeing her breasts bristling through the thin fabric of his shirt.

“Good Morning.” She gives him a tiny smile.

“Morning.” He answers in the same tone.

She looks around the room, perhaps looking for any conversation topic since John did not seem so open to start a dialogue.

"Will Sherly be back soon?"

Hear that nickname - ridiculous! (John's mind screams) made his guts squirm uncomfortably.

“I don’t know. He usually likes to solve six impossible cases before breakfast.” John replies, remembering his morning mental exercise.

She smiles, and it's... Disturbingly sincere.

"Speaking of breakfast, will you take some?" John offers more for education than anything else. None of Sherlock's lightning cases stayed in the flat until the sunrise or even less for breakfast, but John is a gentleman and his manners did not leave him because he seems to be developing an obsession with his flatmate.

Janine accepts but offers help, then both are walking around the kitchen, the kettle on, with Earl Gray, bread in the toaster, eggs popping in the butter in the frying pan. The kitchen smells magnificent and John's stomach approves.

They sit down and the dialogue is a bit flushed, she seems to want to gain his confidence, as if without it she knew that she could not held Sherlock. Be friends of his friends and blah, blah, blah. John is following the flow, eating and talking.

"You're like me," she says suddenly, her face serious, the food forgotten on the table.

John's heart jerks, but he frowns in confusion, not really understanding what she means. Has she ever realized the attraction they share for the alpha? Did she realize the passion he has cultivated for his best friend?

"You're Genderless."

Acid seems to corrode John's veins right now, because in the midst of all this confusion he notices a few things:

1 - it's not his genus’s lack that prevents Sherlock from pushing him on the mattress and making him see stars.

2 - there are some people like him - here in London - and she seems to be doing very well in her life - God, she is personal assistant to the owner of the largest newspaper company in England.

And 3 - how could she possibly know, if like him, she does not have an evolved smell sense?

"I'm..." Confirmation comes out of his throat tight, as if he's croaking like a duck!

“How…”

“Sherly told me.”

 _Oh God. Oh my God! If it was not serious, Sherlock would not be sharing things about his personal life with her. Oh my God. Oh my god! -_  John thinks repeatedly, as if suddenly the ground was disappearing before his feet.

After five deep breaths and squeezing his jaw tightly he practically growls.

"He should not. It is not his right to comment on  _my_  personal life.

She shrugs as if it were only natural.

“He also said that you have been using beta essence sprays and that people can no longer smell you, which them smell you like a beta. Do you know how expensive it is? Do you know how much each spray bottle does cost in cash?

John does not know. He was never interested in knowing. One day in the morning, Sherlock pushed a bottle of beta essence into his hands and said it would be a way to no longer receive the confusing and pitying stares of every time he left the house. People would still be surprised by their small height, Sherlock said. Even omegas are usually taller than John, but John accepted the spray as a balm. Every month Sherlock gives him a new one and he never questioned where they came from or how much they were worth. He knew it was not something he found in pharmacies, but Sherlock always gets what he wants, does not he? Some satisfied client must have provided him with lifelong lots of it and Sherlock had no other use but to give John.

John shrugs.

“About three thousand five hundred pounds each." - she responds as if he had asked and John can only think of trying to swallow around the lump that forms in his throat.

"We've been going out for four months.”  _Fuck, John trembles inside. Four months is very serious!_ "And he never offered me anything like that."

 

_She knows. She knows. She knows I'm in love with him. She knows!_

John's brain goes haywire for a second, but anger soon precedes and he responds without thinking:

“He offered you him bed.” 

“And he offered you a fucking whole apartment! A shared life! He talks about you all damn time.  _John know to do that, John like this, John, John, John!_  You have no idea how much it is annoying!

John takes a few more breaths and calms down.

“I'm just him best friend.” He says, but it sounds like a lament, as if only being the best friend hurt more than anything. She listen it. She listen it and smile.

"It's good that this is all." Then she gets up and goes back into Sherlock's room.

John climbs the stairs to his own room with his legs shaking.

He only realizes that he is crying when his face hits the pillow and the sobs sweep up his small Genderless body in a constant and painful way.

 

**To be continued…**

 

**(***)**

**~ 2 ~**

**Sherlock Holmes**

 

John, oh so sweet John.

Sherlock remembers the moment he met him, like a bristly little cat, but ready to show off his claws, claws that could be truly damaging - Sherlock does not doubt it for a second.

It's the jigsaw puzzle that John is which gains the immediate Sherlock’s attention.

He knows some Genderless. In his line of work he has dealt with all kinds of people, but John, he is the one who escapes every rule.

Doctor, ex-soldier, marksman and at the same time domestic, fantastic cook, with obsessive-compulsive disorder by housekeeping. Short yes, but owner of enviable muscles. Tattooed... That puts Sherlock on the edge of lust because it was a kink he did not know he had until he saw John without a shirt for the first time. The beautiful, perfect cervical spine, following a vertical line on him back, nice skin that somehow still seemed to reflect the tan of the Afghan brilliant sun gold... It was the first time that Sherlock imagined what it would be like to lick the way from above and down in the dark lines with his tongue. This ignited some warning signs because he knew it was a way he really should not go through.

It's all a hodgepodge in fact, all the little things that make up John's personality. From the brave to the calm. From the killer to the healer. Of making himself small and harmless in his fluffy sweaters, while in a fraction of a second he could shoot perfectly at anyone who posed a threat to the lives of those he prized.

And Sherlock... He was obsessed. He was obsessed with the unpretentious smiles, the way John cared him, the way John was peeved with him, the constant presence in his life. And that was bad, really dangerous.

_Caring is not an advantage._

He knew that, but that did not make him stop worrying about John constantly.

Sherlock tried to forget his attraction in other bodies, beautiful omegas, beautiful betas, hot bodies moaning their pleasure beneath his own body and for a moment seemed to work, until suddenly the mouths he kissed turned into John's thin lips and the bodies he touched merged into John, a beautiful fantasy of him little body writhing beneath his, sweaty, moaning, adorable John.

But Sherlock knew this could not happen, for reasons he would never want to explain to John.

He was born as an Alpha level 4, although he was now an Alpha level 3, which meant that within the hierarchies of generations he still reported to his older brother - Mycroft (level 2) and his mother (level 1) to whom both should to submit.

John did not understand how things really worked, because he obviously had an aversion to alphas until Sherlock appeared in his life. Sherlock knew from the beginning that John was extremely suspicious of anything that represented the power of an alpha, and Sherlock deduced that it probably came from an abusive and psychologically traumatizing childhood.

John do not talk about it and Sherlock had the sense for not to ask, but he knew it must not have been good.

(***)

Sherrinford had been married with a beta for good years, but she suddenly fell ill and passed away, leaving him a widower. The nurse who took care of her was promptly prepared to comfort Sherrinford's broken heart, and with patience, persuasion and perfect words employed at the right moments, the nurse had him at his fingertips, wrapped around his little little finger as a string.

The engagement followed a few months later and the young, small, handsome Genderless, James Moriarty was exactly where he wanted to be. His family had never been prejudiced, but Sherlock and Mycroft knew something was not right.

They investigated, but there did not seem to be anything really nefarious (or at least nothing nefariously proven) about the little brunet's approach.

The marriage was rushed and broached in every newspapers of the town, as if the little Genderless was the lucky commoner marrying the enchanted prince.

James almost destroyed Sherlock's family, because James wanted power, but for this he needed money. Millions were diverted from the Holmes coffers into Moriarty's accounts, because Sherrinford was a passionate fool.

It was not until saw the evidence of the robbery stamped on his face that Sherrinford was forced by their mother to take an action. At this point, loving blindly, he fought with all his might against the orders of his greater alpha, but to deny the kind of order that Mummy imputed is like poisoning. It's like breaking every bond that keeps you strong. And he denied, denied it until it taxed heavily upon his health. He did not denounce James, he did not ask for the divorce, he did not abandon him.

Sherrinford went mad, thinking that the Holmes were plotting against him and his beloved husband, that the Holmes wanted their evil, that the Holmes wanted to kill him, to get him out of the testament, so that he would not receive his inheritance when the time came.

It was absurd and really painful, because of the three, Sherrinford was always the kindest. He did not have Mycroft’s and Sherlock’s intelligence and even though he was also an alpha, he had always been more like Daddy - adorable, confident, giving hugs, telling stories before bed, giving kisses, simply because he lived that way, forever smiling. His motto was: always say what you need, give affection while you can, because you never know what tomorrow holds you.

Sherlock understands, but can not follow his brother's advice, not after seeing what love has caused him: an unplanned stay in a hospice.

And his mother decreed, out of anger perhaps, in a moment of blindness and pain to see that her precious son had lost his mind because of a Genderless, that no Holmes would ever romantically attach to the other Genderless. He knows Mummy does not go back. She never takes a decree, even when she knows she's wrong and Sherlock knows, God he knows, if he lets things go on with John, it's the way he's going to end up, mentally unstable, crazy, his intellect lost. He can not risk it. He should not.

When Sherlock gave the beta spray to John, he really had ulterior motives. His family wanted to meet the person that Sherlock was sharing his flat in London, they wanted to meet the person who was following Sherlock up and down the crime scenes, so Sherlock thought of the quickest solution he could.

He knew it would work. The chemicals involved in the beta-essence spray were really powerful and would delude his family for the hours they would spend at dinner. Greg knows the truth, but Sherlock knew he could trust him. Mycroft, of course, also knew, but after a well-organized hijacking to test John, in which he failed miserably after John denied any money supply to spy Sherlock, he gave his endorsement - so to speak - then neither of both would say to his Mummy that she was actually sitting with a Genderless on her dinner table - though she had asked about John's short size, and blushing, he replied that he came from a short family. She accepted the answer with a satisfied smile.

She had developed hatred for Genderless - which is unfair, but people respond differently to trauma. She practically lost a son, the dearest son, the closest son, the most affectionate son, because of a Genderless and there was nothing that Sherlock could say to make her see how wrong her attitude was.

 (***)

When Sherlock comes home it's late and Janine has left. He sniffs the air automatically and takes a step back in confusion when he notices the sour notes of stress and sadness. It comes from John. He is attuned to the smell / not smell of John in a way that even he can not explain. Only through the smell he can know what emotion John is feeling at the moment, and it is really a torture when the vibrant smells of euphoria  post-case turn into sweet notes of hot cinnamon with honey, like liquid lust invading his nose, fooling him, leaving him virtually unable to reason correctly.

But not now, now there is bitter, dense old sorrow, of hours ago, but still so strong that it made him stagger.

He climbs the stairs slowly, following the source of the pungent smell and opens the door of John's room slowly.

John is lying in a fetal position, wrapped in the bluish terry robe, his hair spiked in all directions as he takes a deep breath. His hands are crossed on his stomach and his knees bent upward toward his chest. Sherlock feels the salty scent in the air - the smell of tears, but as he approaches, he realizes that John is sleeping soundly.

Valium.

Sherlock sees the free sample carton of pills by the bed. He knows that John has access - being a doctor and working in a clinic, and John knows he should not self-medicate, but if he did it, some strong motive should have led him to do it and this worries Sherlock in more levels than he wants admit.

He sits on John's bed and touches his calf muscle. The skin is freezing. He grabs the blanket and covers John by the shoulders. John gives no sign that he will wake up anytime soon and Sherlock is not sure if the blogger will want to talk to him about what brought him to that state.

He allows himself a moment of indulgence and his big hands go to John's hair, feeling the strands between his digits, the silk texture. To an outside observer, John seems to be only blond, but at this distance Sherlock begins to notice the variety of colors of John’s hair, the darker brown wicks around the lighter golden. Sherlock's fingers went down to his long, golden eyelashes, resting quietly on the brown eyebrows, the curve of his perfect, well-formed nose. It's one of the parts of John's face that Sherlock thinks is lovelier - not that he'll ever admit it - nor under torture. Then his fingers come down to John’s lips, to the square and strong chin - stubborn, he feels the scratching of the beard growing and knows that John did not shave this morning. He feels Janine's faint scent around John and frowns - because this indicates she was present until the moment he woke up, and that fragrance also indicates that they must have remained in the presence of each other for more than just five minutes.

Sherlock begins to deduce then. About things Sherlock knew Janine might have spoken to hurt John this way, there was one in particular that would be enough to bring him down, and Sherlock felt his heart clenching in a painful way. Sherlock had to share things with Janine so that she would believe in the veracity of his interest, things about him, things about John, things she and John shared without even knowing – being a Genderless the main one. He knows Janine is jealous of John, he knows she is a wolf in sheepskin, and that she will do anything to keep him, and consequently keep him away from John.

She told him, told to John the things he had to share, and John must have felt betrayed, perhaps even humiliated, deprived. Sherlock's heart seems to diminish in his chest because he was inadvertently the tool that caused this pain in John and because of him John felt enough pain to self-medicate, to fall into oblivious drug-taking of the benzodiazepines, and there was nothing that Sherlock could speak or do to mitigate this kind of damage.

He knew - of course he knew that John was falling in love with him. He felt every day the changing in his scent, the attraction, affection, fascination, humiliation. Yes, there was much self-deprecation in John that Sherlock did not know how to stop, because he was trying to convince John otherwise, he do not might be giving more ammunition to a feeling that not  _should_  be returned, though, in spite of what should be done, it was impossible to really command the feelings.

He can pretend, he really can, and looking back now there is pressure on his lungs and his throat closes when he remembers that his coping mechanism was to be with other people in the flat they shared, that John heard every groan of pleasure, every beat of excited bodies, thinking, hoping perhaps that it would be him in their places. Oh how Sherlock wanted to, wanted to be able to have his body, wanted to hide him in his arms, but life made it impossible could be together when John was born Genderless. Because that did not define who he was, but that was also the deciding factor that would prevent them from being anything but good friends.

And it hurts.

Because he knows John wants him... Because he knows he wants him back... But it's impossible. And there is nothing that he can do to change that.

**(***)**

The first body appears in an alley in Leeds. He is a small black man, as John's stature. Colin Martin, twenty-two years old. There was no sign of apparent trauma. He is naked, his hands folded in his stomach, his face calm, peaceful, as if he were asleep.

Sherlock opens his magnifying glass, checking the body. John is right behind. The  _rigor mortis_  indicates that the body is in the alley, exposed to air for at least four hours - which indicates that the possible killer spawned the body and arranged that way at the end of dawn.

Sherlock finds needle holes between his toes, in the armpits and groin, but Molly's drug test runs empty for any kind of drugs or medications. Family and friends cry desperately. He was only a part-time librarian, studying medicine in Cambrigde.

He was a Genderless.

  
(***)

The second body was found a week later on the sandbank on Thames, a thirty-year-old woman, Ashley Murdock, small and curvaceous, blonde, long-haired. She is lying peacefully, her blue eyes lifeless looking up at the sky. Her arms are open in the shape of a cross and her legs point towards the east.

Sherlock finds needle marks at the nape of the neck, where the scalp begins and on the inside of her lips.

The toxicological test - much more complete this time, returns empty.

Sherlock shakes uncomfortably when he discovers that her father is a general at RAMC.

She was a Genderless.

He does not tell John this time.

(***)

Sherlock stops informing John about the Genderless case, putting other cases in front of John, distracting him with mastery while secretly investigates the double murder. There is no DNA, there is no cameras shot - even if London is known to be the most well-watched city in the world. There is no clue.

Sherlock points to the small criminal behavior pattern for Lestrade and Mycroft.

He will not play with John's safety.

(***)

The third body is' of a blond man and his appearance is nauseatingly similar to John. His name is Jordan Belmont. The needle marks remain the same. Toxicology tests this time come with signs of high levels of estradiol, alphahydroxyprogesterone and oxytocin.

There is a note wrapped in his left hand - the hand that John is proficient.

_What don’t you see, my dear detective?_

_When is a murder is not just a pleasure?_

_Side effects need to be allowed or we will never evolve._

_Do you agree?_

_What will be the key?_

_Your love, Watson, may be my next blossom..._

_It's for science and now I will be silent._

 

_Someone who admires you deeply._

_Nina Jekins._

 

(***)

Nina Jekins is not a real person, Sherlock suddenly knows.

A murder is not only a murder when it is a test. The killer is testing on the bodies. He thinks he does it  _for science._ But Sherlock also knows there's something bigger about it all, and that his feelings for John are clouding his judgment.

Sherlock knows historically that these are the worst killers. There is no ethics. There is no morality. They convince themselves of their truth and there is nothing that makes them change their minds.

(***)

John discovers that Sherlock was hiding the cases when he invades Lestrade's office with two coffees in his hand. The big evidence board with the seven new bodies - all Genderless, is full of pics, the pattern linking them with red tape, John's photo in the center of web. John immediately sees it, of course he sees.

"John-" "Sherlock tries to speak, but it's immediately cut off by John's abrupt nod.

"You were hiding this from me." John says the obvious. There is a slight tremor in his voice as he approaches to the board, leaving the two coffees on Lestrade's desk.

He looks at the pictures, his eyes linger on the note.

He frowns.

His arms crisscrossed around him, half-hugging, half-shielding, trying to become small in the face of such a morbid threat.

"You know..." he begins. Sherlock cuts then;

"No, no trace of DNA, the person is extremely careful, but I know they are going to make a mistake. They always make a mistake. They broke the pattern only twice, first when left the note, and then when all the other bodies after the third were from homeless people.

"Obviously..." John said shaking his head, his voice shaking, the fear scent souring the air. 

“Medicine student in Cambrigde, I did medicine... A general daughter... I went to the Army... Jordan... Damn, God!... He was... He was my cousin, illegitimate son of a deceased uncle that I had not seen for more than ten years. We were not close, but... Oh my God... It's all about me, Sherlock... That... It's all about me.

John's voice swells with panic.

Sherlock gasps with equal despair. He knows it's all about John, but he will not let it, he can not to allow it...

Lestrade leaves the room quietly.

Sherlock yields to his instinct and goes to John who seems that at any moment will break into a million pieces, like tempered glass when broken.

He hugs John, instinctively, rubbing his chin on the smaller man, spreading his scent on him, promising to anyone who had a nose that John belonged to him, ensuring that his scent was imprinted on him.

"Sherlock..." John whispered.

“Shh... It'll be alright John... I'll figure it out. It's going to be all right, I promise.”

It was the first time in his life that Sherlock make a promised that he did not know he could actually keep.

 

(***)

Hours of investigation turned into days and days into weeks. John was under surveillance and could only leave the house if at least two Mycroft’s minions were accompanying him. He started to walk armed. No one condemned him for it.

Sherlock was at the end of his sanity. To scent John instinctively did something break inside him, and he could feel his mental processes slowing down, but every time he saw John he felt compelled to hug him, to be close, to feel his small and warm body next to him.

Mycroft warned him of danger, but it was an impossible battle to be overcome. His head screamed no, but his inner alpha roared that yes, that John belonged him, that he was his mate, that John belonged to him territory and that his territory was being threatened.

 

**_My mate. I must protect, I must mark. Mine, mine, mine._ **

**(***)**

It was raining, Sherlock was wrapped up in the couch. The gray, thunderous morning left an uneasy alpha.

Sherlock heard the creak of the stairs and looked up. He saw John coming down the steps in blue-and-gray plaid pajamas with long sleeves, scratching his eyes and yawning, his hair messy with sleep, his feet wrapped in a soft white sock. The pajama shirt rose slightly, revealing the trail of brown hair that disappeared in his cotton pants.

Sherlock swallowed. He should not. He did not  _could..._

But he could no longer deny his instincts, he could not stop the alpha screaming inside that John should be, that John was theirs, that John was strong, that John was different...

He stood up like an automaton, his arms wrapped around John's smaller body, his nose sniffing around his neck.

“Sherlock?” John asked confused, his voice husky with sleep.

But it was not Sherlock anymore, not completely, he was the alpha in most of the control, instinctively doing what Sherlock could not do because of the reason.

Sherlock's lips, moist and warm, began tracing a necklace of kisses around the handsome John’s neck, biting lightly, gently sucking small marks around the skin.

John groaned and grabbed Sherlock as if his life depended on it, his heart rumbling in his chest, wanting, needing to believe that what was happening at that moment was true.

John takes a step back, pulling back as far as one arm, his face wrinkled in confusion, teeth biting his lower lips.

"Is this really happening?" John whispers incredulously. Sherlock takes another step toward John, fingers crawling under the hem of his shirt and hooking the waistband of his pajama bottoms to bring him closer again.

John never really got a chance to enjoy the beautiful clarity of Sherlock's eyes before. He has seen them often in flashes of blue, green, and alpha darkness, but now, so close, it is not the color that matters to him. It is the desire, the raw and unfeigned desire stamped on those exotic orbs.

John has to blink several times to clear his mind and focus on the present. 

"Why now, why not before this whole mess?" He asks anxiously, wanting to suffocate himself by asking questions at a time when he should simply take advantage of what was being so freely offered to him, what he wished for months, languished for it, dreamed every night, envied who had it.

Sherlock shakes his head before dragging his lips along the edge of John's jaw, but does not respond, not immediately. John tilts his chin gently, inviting more contact. Sherlock does not disappoint. He curls, sniffing, inhaling gently, tracing the line of stubborn jaw with kisses, tongue and nose, until he finds the place beneath his ear, his warm breath sweeping John's ear, making his legs soft.

Sherlock lifted him, holding him by the waist - so in control, so perfectly steady that John wants to punch him, because John thinks he'll melt at any moment.

"I should not John..." he whispers. "And I still don’t, but I can not help it.

He replies enigmatically, but the words are just murmurs to John's ear and he can not make sense. He does not want to talk, he just  _needs._ He wants!

Suddenly, John is being pressed against a wall, although he does not remember to actually walk, but Sherlock was sucking his earlobe obscenely and he began to let out noises from which he should be ashamed, but he cannot, because at that moment he is only desire and lust.

John drags the back of Sherlock's shirt up, pressing the sweaty, hot, warm palm against the alpha's skin as their mouths finally meet.

It's a slow, soft, sweet and perfect kiss.

He imagined a thousand times what that moment would be, that Sherlock would take all of him with overwhelming passion, that there would be bites and good aggression, and lust, but that, that was divine.

Sherlock's tongue smoothed over his, dancing slowly, sucking carefully, gently nibbling his lower lip.

It is affection and desire, it is love that cannot be expressed in words being put into gestures. John wants to laugh and wants to cry.

John recoils completely. Sherlock slides his hand to the front of his pajamas, pressing his palm against the place where his heart is hammering wildly, and John knows that with his superior instincts Sherlock can feel it, he can even hear it if really concentrate... He feels Sherlock’s lips smiling against his own, happy about the obvious effect he has over John.

"Show off..." John murmurs against Sherlock's lips and kisses him again, more intensely, more willingly. He is feeling bold now, desire clouding his previous nervousness. He's never been with an alpha, he does not know what to expect, but, hell, it already feels very hot.

"I think you like it." Sherlock murmurs. His hand raise up to caress John's lower lip, tracing the soft skin with his fingertips and John opens his mouth reflexively. “You love it when I show myself... When I figure all out... When I'm the smartest person in the room.”

John moans, eyes closing as his tongue comes out to lick the provocative digit.

"You're always the smartest person in the room." he says, smiling.

Sherlock smiles fondly, then he kisses John differently now, because it is deep, hot and hard, teeth biting his lower lip, tongue licking eagerly.

John groans. There is no more place for shame. He is being reduced to a human being who is only greed and Sherlock is the guilty.

John is pulling Sherlock shirt without conscious direction and just wanting it  _out, out of them body, damn, now!_ To feel the warmth and texture of his skin.

Sherlock understands John's despair because he laughs against his lips again before pulling away and pulling the shirt over his head, dropping the offending shirt in some unmentionable corner of the flat, while, at the same time, he takes off John's shirt too, hurried and sloppy, bending over to kiss the newly exposed skin.

John runs his fingers through Sherlock's hair, his hand wrapping in the silky curls, pulling him closer. Sherlock, crooked, traces open-mouth kisses on John's collarbone down his breastbone, his big hands on his sides caressing softly, leaving a trail of heat wherever he touch.

 

John thinks him will melt at any moment. Sherlock's lips reach his nipples, licking softly, leaving a trail of cold and heat, bitting and sweetly sucking soon after, and the whine that John lets loose is downright obscene.

They are with a cocks toughs and breathless.

John pulls Sherlock's hair, demanding, needing Sherlock's mouth again in his, wanting to feel him in everywhere. They kiss again, warmed, with sucking noises and hoarse groans that make John red with shame and lust.

Suddenly, John also wants to mark him, because he knows that after today he will smell like Sherlock, and whoever knows them will know what they did, no matter how much more bath they take, there will still be the obvious sign of what they two shared.

John goes up to Sherlock's neck, that gorgeous neck, so sexy, pale skin unblemished, and he begins to suck, feeling Sherlock's groan trembling under his lips and tongue. And he sucks until he turns red, proud, knowing that the only way that Sherlock can hide his mark is to wear the scarf.

Sherlock reciprocates, his lips descending to John's wrist point at his neck, pressing the palm of his tongue against his skin. John's groan and is louder this time. He finds himself yelled needy, his throat thrown back giving free access, his hands pressed against the back of Sherlock's neck, pulling the large alpha closer, separating his legs against the gentle pressure of Sherlock's thigh between they.

John is hard and throbbing, and he knows that even if Sherlock could not feel it against his thighs, he would be able to smell the John’s excitement. An alpha can always...  Instead of feeling self-conscious about it, John suddenly feels more connected, more excited, less in control.

He grinds against Sherlock's leg, and he cannot help himself, he needs pressure, friction himself in Sherlock.

Sherlock lets out a breathless grunt against John's neck.

"I want you, John..." Sherlock groans, his voice cracking with concupiscence. 

John slides his hands down Sherlock's back, muscles ripple beneath his touch. He squeezes Sherlock's ass, pulling it against him. Sherlock is so large, he can feel the so huge erection against his lower belly, the huge alpha stick vibrating with desire.

The detective, in a show of alpha strength that makes John's blood sing, lifts him around the waist. John by reflex ties his legs around the taller man and hold at Sherlock’s neck while he is taken to Alpha's bed, to the Sherlock's primordial territory.

Sherlock put John gently in the bed, but then he pulls off John’s pants with his underwear and socks, doing the same for himself then, displaying his huge alpha cock, swollen with desire, the prominent veins pulsing.

“Gods!” John breathes, his mouth open in a silent 'o' as Sherlock licks into the hollow at the base of his throat, down the center of his body, reaching his crotch and breathing deeply there. 

John shakes, eyes closed tightly. His hips rising a little involuntarily to meet Sherlock's face.

Sherlock breathes in him, uneven and unstable, and John knows that the smell of his excitement must be driving the alpha crazy.

It's without warning and without preamble, and John sees sparks behind his irises when Sherlock swallows him whole, heat and pleasure exploding his mind.

He screams. He's melw. He says Sherlock's name as if it were a prayer.

Sherlock begins at a slow sucking pace, his tongue popping out to whirl around his glans, licking the pre-cum drops in his crevice.

John's hips gets self-will, rising up to fuck in the warm and inviting mouth. Sherlock moans around him, and John thinks that at any moment he will get lost.

Sherlock released his penis with a dirty  _plop_.

John immediately - and verbally - laments the loss.

Sherlock laughs, amused and affectionate. John may or may not have made a pout. He'll never admit it.

"I want to be closer to you when I make you cum..." Sherlock says, and it's impudent, immoral, and perfect. He comes back to kissing John again, his mouth relentlessly teasing, suggestively sucking his tongue as he has just sucked his cock and John can feel his taste in the kiss.

John’s hands are holding the Sherlock’s hips, pulling him closer, until their bodies line up, they dicks align and suddenly everything that John can say is _more, more hard, more fast,  more, more, more_. They are sliding against each other, sweaty. He cannot even believe it's not really a dream, because everything looks so good; Every slide of their bodies, every breath, every kiss.

John's hands involuntarily go up to Sherlock's butt, pulling him more enthusiastically, wanting to feel Sherlock's long, thick cock against his, wanting to feel every shock of pleasure that runs through the edges of his body every time Sherlock grinds against him with more determination.

It comes like lightning, and John is suddenly unable to see, to hear, to breathe. His body is tense, his feet curl up and he suddenly groans for a long time and pours once, twice, three times, against Sherlock, his eyes rolling lightly as absolute pleasure devours him.

Sherlock growls, roars, the animalistic sound echoing in his chest and throat, when he comes too, much more than John's amount, making the most wonderful dirt upon they.

John is floating and Sherlock is purring like a big cat, his nose tucked into the crook of his neck, his weight placed half on the bed, half the left side, while the soft, full lips rise to kiss the bullet scar on his shoulder and the tattoo on the heart.

Sherlock's hands spread cum through John's stomach and chest, like a lotion. John does not care, he thinks, as he drifts into a deep sleep. It must be an alpha thing.

John now understands what the word sublime means.

Sublime is all Sherlock is. Sublime is all that they are together.

**To be continued...**

(***) 

 


	2. The final

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So, thank you so much to all who are kudu'ed this! I hope I did not make a big mess here and I also hope that this is at least a little understandable hahahaha  
> Your comment would be greatly appreciated, with all my heart!  
> Thank you for sharing this trip with me!  
> I loved writing this little story.  
> Debby's kisses 4 all you!

**Chapter 2  
The Final [not so unexpected]**

 

It's been three days since they both gave in to the desires that plagued them. It is strange indeed that Sherlock's Alpha desires someone as insignificant as John, or that is just his exacerbated insecurity speaking. John knows that throughout his life he never imagined being with someone like Sherlock, bright, beautiful, strong and  _alpha._

Everything is strange and wonderful, until John begins to realize a significant change in the behavior of Sherlock, something that really scares him. Sherlock is becoming more cranky, angry even, unstable, inconsistent ... and slow. And of all the rest is this that really puts John on the brink of despair.

Sherlock paused in the middle of a deduction, his spastic arms pausing in the air, as if suddenly he had lost his train of thought and had no idea how to get back on track.

After what seemed like an eternity, but lasted no more than a minute, Sherlock frowned in confusion, shook his head as if to ward off a bad idea, and walked into an angry march out of the crime scene ignoring Lestrade's shouts. And John himself asking him to come back.

Strange was the fact that a Mycroft’s car was waiting for Sherlock on the corner, a car in which Sherlock entered - for free will.

John could not shake the feeling of bad omen by squeezing his heart. Something was happening, something big and serious that Sherlock was not sharing purposely, and there was nothing John could do to help.

Greater confusion shiver went through John when he heard a cry within his own, a sadness whimpering in his head for not having followed  _his Alfa._

It was John's turn to shake his head in confusion and head for the nearest subway line back to Baker Street. He, after all, did not have a fortune to spend on cabs.

(***)

When John climbed the familiar stairs of his apartment, he noticed that someone already there. He felt a growl of anger rising in his throat, but the shock was so great that it made him stop the sound he had never done before. His heart raced. Christ, what was wrong with him today?

“Janine.”  he greeted, more by educated habit than by anything else.

She gave him a small smile (false, though). 

“Jhonny! Did you see Sherly? I've been trying to talk to him for days, but I got no response. Maybe he's busy with an important case.”

Trying to ignore the feeling of discomfort, he just nodded, avoiding further explanation.

"Is he coming back soon?" She asked and looked malicious.

John frowned, distrust growing inside him alarmingly.

"Probably not... You know how Sherlock is when he's in a case." He replied trying to seem indifferent, but inside his body was in a boil of feelings. There was jealousy, anger, distrust, the will to expel the intruder from  _his territory, his den._

John ran his hand reflexively over his chest, smoothing the place of anguish, trying to understand what was happening to him.

"What is wrong about you, Johnny?" 

Janine asked, rising from Sherlock's leather chair where she was sat. There was a smug smile on her red-painted lips.

“Do not call me like that!” 

He practically screamed, the words coming out swelled up through his tight vocal cords.

"You have no idea, do you? You never had a clue.”

_Gods. What this woman is talking about now?_

Instinctively, John leaned against the nearest wall, moving away from what his mind screamed to be dangerous. _Why is she dangerous?_  John could not understand.

John did not notice when it happened, but suddenly Janine’s hands were around his neck as if holding a breed of dog, his hands closing tightly in his neck, and he whimpered,  _God no!_ It was as if his body was losing all his strength and he knew that even though he was stronger than she, he could never get out of this tightness.

For a second John thought she had figured it, she knew that he and Sherlock slept together, that they... They... And now, now she wanted revenge. But why, why could not he defend himself? What was wrong with him?

Her face approached inches from John's, an ugly grin spreading across his features.

"He never told you, did he? He did not tell you why he's getting more and more vulnerable. He did not tell you because he's getting  _dumb!”_

She laughed, throwing her head back. 

 

“Your brilliant detective, your intelligent Alpha is nothing, nothing compared to  _us_. We managed to destroy the first, and now we are destroying the second. We're going to destroy them all, one by one.

"What are you talking about?" John asked, his voice in a weak whisper. “I cannot understand.”

"Hmm..." she mumbled, tucking her head into the crook of John's neck, pulling the air as tightly as she could. "You smell so good..." she sighed, running her tongue down John’s neck. John immediately became sick to the point of almost vomiting. He did not understand why his body did not obey, because he simply could not get out of the woman's grasp.

"You've always been so interesting, Captain Watson. We took an interest in you when you were shot. The amount of extensive exams they did on you showed us how much you had potential. Your ability to survive was so promising. You were all we needed, but it was untouchable under the protection of that little Major. We made him pay, of course, for his meddling. I could have had you for so long, but he made it impossible.”

“Major Sholto?” John asked dazedly, remembering the terrifying news he had read about his greatest mentor.

“ _We_  love explosive things.” She said, a dreamy smile on her lips.

"They were peoples, you crazy! It was the lives of young recruits!” John said in disgust.

“Peoples dies!” She shouted in John’s face, her face wild with madness.

"Oh dear Johnny..." She changed the subject, as if her mind could not stay on a single topic, her voice softening to an almost tender tone. "The cheap doctors his parents took you in your teens were incompetent. Did you know Johnny boy, that you are a genetic chimera?

“I don’t… What?”

“Yes you are. I bet you as a doctor know what it's all about. I had access to enough of your genetic material to prove my point. Just have the right contacts in high places, and with money everything is within our reach. Did you know that indirectly, the Holmes family funded my studies?”

 _Keep her talking,_  John thought desperately.  _Maybe she gets distracted and lets you go._

"I'm not... a genetic chimera.” He said again, insisting on this fact, though he knew that he had never really done enough exams to prove that she was wrong.

“But you are  _Johnny boy._ You absorbed your little omega twin still in your mother's belly. What we do for survival can be so wonderful. You have two distinct DNAs strands.”

"But I'm a Genderless.” John said in confusion.

"No, no, no, sweetheart..." She smiled again, running her fingers through a pathetic parody of affection through John’s hair. “You are a  _Repressed.”_

She said as if John should know the meant of the word, as if John were to understand everything she was saying just because of those words.

"Sherly... Sherly made everything so easy, you know? Getting closer to you... It was easier than we thought it would be. A well-played bait and there was your detective sniffing a case like a dog looking for a bone. The promise of catching a criminal figure like CAM left him blind.”

"But anyway, the Holmes are not really smart, not when they're thinking with their dicks. My brother managed to tread his way through that family, and now it's my turn. Is not it wonderful?”

"If it's all about me, why bother with Sherlock? I could never... Never have known… him.”

She laughed contemptuously.

"Two pretty coincidences indeed. Call it of fate, though if this were the case, you'd already be dead."

She spoke in such a factual voice that John began to shake feeling the power of the real threat for the first time. Threat to his life.

"I've been after _Genderless_ and _Repressed_ for years.” She said thoughtfully now. "I've evolved a lot with my research. Today, I have the power of an alpha and the control of a beta thanks to my studies.

"You... you are Genderless’s Killer. God, did you use yourself as a guinea pig?”

She shrugged. 

"I'm not a murderer. Technically, I did not kill them. I only got what I needed from them. And they were not all Genderless, some were similar to you, many betas and alphas suppressed. But you Johnny, you are unique. I've never seen anyone like you. A suppressed omega? This is really interesting and what makes you so special.

“Why?!”

“Omega genes are recessive, so the percentage of omegas is so low when compared to betas and alphas. But omegas, they are special. Many would consider them to be the weak part of society, but they are not... The power that an omega can have over an alpha is absolute. You have no idea what the smell of an omega does for an alpha, even for a beta. They are seductive by nature, indeed manipulators. Just a snap of a finger and an omega would have the ability to incite wars if only they knew how to use his fucking head in the right way!”

“This is what you want? Be an omega? Being weak, being vulnerable to an alpha?”

"It's a matter of control, baby. I would be the mixture of everything... An omega to manipulate even the coldest of alphas, an alpha to be able to surpass the will to submit me, and also a beta, to have control and balance on all this.”

"You could never do that. This is insane. No body would withstand this variety of genes. You should know that.”

“I and my brother were born Genderless, but we already have characteristics betas and alphas. Only one is left, only one to get everything we want.”

"And why not take it from any other omega?"

She rubbed her nose against John's in an Eskimo kiss. John tried to merge to the wall, his body flailing back, trying to get away from the crazy woman.

“Because there is no power rating. I tried, but the five guinea pigs died and the material was not good for handling. You are a _Repressed_... It's are years, years and years of repressed heats, hormonal variations that just need to be brought to the fore... Imagine the power, the quality of it?

“You are crazy.”

"That, my dear, is a great compliment.” She smiled lovingly.

"Oh... I can dream of the control I'm going to have by extracting your pheromones. The potential to make alphas bow, alphas like the Holmes... The adulterated betas sprays started to awaken part of who you are, but I need to speed things up. I have a bet to win.”

"Sherlock will never let that happen. He will never allow it." John said firmly.

"But he's already allowed, love... After all, he's not here to stop me..."

Janine reached into her coat pocket and pulled out two small syringes, one containing a milky liquid and the other empty. The void would serve to collect whatever the mad woman needed. The fill could be insulin by the injection format, but John doubted that much.

It almost did not hurt, but John immediately felt the bite on his neck.

He was going to die. He was going to die like everyone else. He was going to die...

_Sherlock ... Sherlock ... Sherlock ... My ... my Alpha..._

Sherlock's name began to whirl through his mind as a prayer. A plea. A lament.

His body fall down slowly along the wall beside the door as Janine set him down on the floor, his black heels and turned calf being the only thing visible to John through that position until she crouched in front of him. John could not fight, his body felt drained, exhausted, his breathing growing heavier and harder, his eyes seeing Janine's face as if he were seeing her through a tunnel.

It was not the last thing he wanted to see in his life, the face of his killer.

"Sherlock and Mycroft have messed up many of our business.” 

 

She said, tapping her index finger on the tip of John's nose as if he were a child. He wanted to ask about who she was talking beyond herself _,_  until with a gloved hand she dropped a plain white business card in his lap.

 

_With the compliments of the brothers J. and J. M._

"If you survive, what would make you the first, tell them that my brother Jimmy sends his regards and asks how his lovely husband, Sherrinford Holmes, is doing. Do not forget to also remember that Janine Moriarty came by.”

She laughed again, a wicked and evil laugh and that was the last thing John heard before the world turned into nothing but darkness.

 

(***)

 

When Sherlock climbed the 221B stairs, his body sagged in shock because of the impacts of the smells he felt. There were remnants of confusion, anger, and genuine fear from John. There was also Janine's scent, but it was wrong. She smelled like an Alpha, but it could not be, she was not an Alpha, she was a Genderless. All these thoughts faded away as he passed through the door, because he felt as if he were going to die, as if his heart were to explode, as if his soul were being torn from his body.

John was sitting on the floor, his hands clasped in his lap, his eyes open, glassy, staring into nowhere.

Sherlock bellowed, a shattered sound coming out from his throat.

_My mate, my mate!_

His alpha screamed in despair as Sherlock ducked down to gather John's body in his arms, crying copiously.

He did not hear Mrs. Hudson coming up to see the motive of the sad howl, he did not hear her calling the emergency as he shook John's body back and forth in his arms, like a metronome.

He barely noticed when the ambulance crew rushed up the stairs or the beta nurse trying to push him away from John as he growled. He just knew that he would rip off the hand of anyone who tried to touch his mate with his own teeth.

He growled, howled, lamented with everything he had. He was no longer he, rational/man Sherlock. He was his alpha, totally in control, totally primal and desperate.

_We need sedate the Alpha!_

He heard it in the distance, then he felt the sting in his neck and finally, his alpha retreated as he fainted. The last thought that whirled through his mind was John's sleepy smile, nestled in his arms as if that were the best place in the world to be.

It was a good thought... A very good...

(***)

When Sherlock woke up, he was in a hospital, arms and legs tied to the bed. He growled furiously, until Mycroft appeared in his line of sight, his face tired, lines of expression creasing his face, as if he had aged years since the last time Sherlock had seen him.

John!

Sherlock remembered, and his face must have shown his despair because Mycrofy said bluntly,

"John is alive and completely out of danger now.”

A weight was lifted from his heart and he felt his body melting against the bed in relief.

“Doctors cannot explain how he survived or the changes that are happening to him. They are calling it a miracle of genders.”

Sherlock frowned in confusion.

Mycroft then dragged the chair to the side of Sherlock's bed, his hands overlaid on the wooden handle of the black umbrella.

"Our technicians were slow to realize that the security cameras in the living room of your flat were sabotaged. There was an image of John arriving, lying on the couch and sleeping, but that was not what was really happening. The technical staff only realized that something was wrong because you appeared in one of the catches entering in Baker Street, but did not appear entering in the flat and the same image of John asleep continued to run in a loop.”

“Your incompetent team!” Sherlock snarled.

“Everyone was fired.” Mycroft sighed. "I did manage to retrieve the real audio, though." He said, pulling a small tape recorder out of the pocket of his three-piece suit jacket.”

He pressed the play and Sherlock began to hear everything that had happened to John with a sense of terror in his heart.

_Damn Moriarty's._

After hearing everything completely, Mycroft spoke softly, apologizing for John's near death.

“Janine and James Moriarty were captured at Gatwic airport and taken into custody. The official story is that James reacted violently along the way, tried to wound one of the officers and was killed in combat, clean shot in his head. Janine, seeing her dead brother tried to attack another agent and received the same fate.”

Relief. Relief was all Sherlock could feel at that moment.

"They will not bother you or John anymore. I've apprehended all their genetic testing centers, and as we speak, the Moriarty's crime network is falling like dominoes.”

"I should have known..." Sherlock muttered.

Mycroft shrugged.

“Your intellect was compromised.” He said, and for the first time in them life it did not sound like an offense.

"Thank you..." Sherlock whispered. Mycroft inclined his head in silent acceptance.

"It's time for you to keep your control Sherlock. John is the only survivor, but this will completely change him. Do you realize that now?”

"Yes..." Sherlock said, staring at the immaculate white walls of the hospital room. “He hates being weak, vulnerable, he will hate what he is becoming.”

"Then make him see that it does not matter. Do not let him get away from you. He is a good man and will be a good omega.”

"Did Lestrade tell you these words?" Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Is it a positivist therapy session?"

"I'm just telling you the obvious, Sherlock. From experience, I know what it is to be bonded to an omega that have a strong personality. Greg rarely accepts my help, Greg knows to defend himself very well, and if you give in to your alpha instincts and try to subdue your omega, you'll have a blast on your hands. They are beautiful things Sherlock, but they can also be wild and independent.”

Sherlock paused to think of the reality of Mycroft's words. It was true, pure and simple. Greg managed - even though he was an omega - to go solo on his professional path by becoming a Detective Inspector. He has a laudable amount of cases settled on his own, and parallel to that, he is a wonderful father and a good omega for his alpha.

Sherlock would do anything to show John that it did not matter what he was genotypically now, but what would always matter was who he was inside, that what he felt for John was not about his body, but it was about his heart. 

 

He is  _his John,_  his to have, not behind, but for to be by his side as a mate, as his light conductor.

Sherlock nodded at Mycroft, finally understanding the depth of his words.

"I have to go..." the older man said. "I have some explanations to give to... Mummy.”

Sherlock shivered feeling a vague pity for his older brother.

“When may I see John?”

“Coming soon. Your alpha is already under control, so the doctors are already coming to untie you and free you.”

"Thank you..." Sherlock spoke again, sincere, looking in every direction except his brother.

"That's what older brothers do. They take care of their baby brothers.” Mycroft replied with a small smile on his lips and left the room.

Sherlock counted the seconds, waiting for the moment that finally, he would see John.

 

(***)

 It was not seconds, unfortunately. It was three agonizing days before they allowed Sherlock to see John.

When Sherlock entered John's room, his eyes almost turned in their orbits by the smell impregnated around the environment. It was sweet, attractive and dense, like melted chocolate, hot and spicy, which made his mouth fill with water until he swallowed thick, using the doorframe as a support so his legs would not give way beneath him. The loveliest thing about all this, is that beneath all this wonderfully disconcerting scent, it was all John. His John. His mate.

He did not notice that he was purring with his eyes closed until John cleared him throat.

Sherlock’s eyes flew open, staring into John's face as if he were coming out of a trance - and he was.

"You smell so good…" John whispered, his pupils dilated, his face flushed, his mouth opened in a state of shock. “I want to... to prove you completely. I want licking every part of your body.”

John spoke and then full blushed, placing his hand over his mouth, his eyes wide as if he did not believe his own words.

Sherlock laughed softly, sitting on the edge of John's bed, showing his wrist so that the omega scent him.

John moaned, his nose burrowing into the alpha's skin, his tongue licking, tasting his pale skin.

Sherlock shivered with pleasure.

“Come here!” John said demanding, his voice deep with desire to be closer. Sherlock realized at that moment what kind of omega John was already proving to be. A strong and impertinent omega.

Sherlock lay down and straightened up in bed until John was lying on top of him, John’s nose buried in Sherlock’s neck, smelling, marking and nibbling, lightly perfuming the alpha an unconsciously whispering  _mine, mine my alpha, mine,_  without even realizing it.

A large Sherlock’s hand rose to John’s fine blond hair, a light, steady gentleness.

“Do you want me?” John asked abruptly, his head rising to meet Sherlock's eyes. There was desire, but there was also rationality there. John was not out of control, he was not lost in a sea of pheromones. He was reacting, yes, but he was in charge of his actions, a sentient being.

"Yes." Sherlock answered without hesitation. "I want you, I want to mark you as mine, I want us to unite for the rest of our natural lives, because I know, John, that there will be no one for me but you. There is no one that I wanted as I want you.”

John sighed in relief.

"Mycroft told me... All that you did to stay with me, what you suffered by going against your mother's orders... I had plenty of time to think here, while my body changed inside, painfully, I might add.”

Sherlock's alpha whined at the thought of his omega suffering.

John placated him, licking and nibbling at Sherlock’s jaw, an almost nonhuman sound coming out of his mouth, reassuring his alpha, urging him to see that he was all right now.

"I figured you'd hate being an omega." Sherlock said, confusion on his face.

"I hated it, I hated it when the doctors explained it to me. I could only think about my mother, how weak she was, how she was so humiliated throughout life by an alpha that was rubbish, but then I stopped to think... You're not that kind of alpha, you are not like my father. You're a good man with a good heart and you would not hurt me like that. You would not break me, would you? Who would give you the best ideas then?” John laughed humorously, and Sherlock followed with a silent laughter.

“How... How can I hate this, if being an omega is what will allow me to be with you in the deepest way? This will allow us to be chemically, biologically, emotionally bonded for the rest of our lives...”

“Yes, it will.” Sherlock said, a smile on his face, his alpha rejoicing inside.

John rubbed himself against Sherlock's neck again.

“I love you my alpha... My bright and strong alpha.”

"I love you too, my omega, my mate.”

They remained so, perfuming themselves, feeling wonderful emotions of placidness and completeness invading their bodies and hearts.

_What does not kill you make you stronger._

John thought, before sleeping in the arms of his man and his alpha.

(***)

**Epilogue**

**3 months later...**

John was constantly accompanied by competent doctors, ensuring his physical well-being after his gender change. He also returned to therapy to ensure his mental and emotional health. The life with Sherlock was a marvel, everything fitting perfectly, work and love in complete harmony. His life seemed sometimes too good to be true, but John had long since given up trying to over-analyze and simply live it.  

The doctors informed him about the spike in his hormones, stating that his first heat was approaching. John was completely terrified and at the same time anxious for the moment. He and Sherlock could finally unite, but a part of John was afraid because he knew that in his heat he would be completely vulnerable, at the mercy of his alpha completely, but he trusted Sherlock with his body and his heart.

Now it was just to make the preparations and wait for the moment that would change his life again, this time in a definitive and irrevocable way.

(***)

"John, I want you so fucking much..." Sherlock whispered, his guttural voice resounding in all the omega’s bones, more and more lost in desire and want.

John was naked on the bed, sweaty, blushing spreading across his face and chest as his body searched for friction in the sheets - now wet with their fluids. He was beyond words, beyond any formulation of rational thought.

His alpha was on top of him, kissing, licking, nibbling at his body, his dark, primal eyes, dropping rational thoughts and yielding to his more primitive instincts.

John moaned loudly, snaking his body in bed, showing off himself for his alpha, his small stiff, pulsating red limb gushing pearly drops of pre-cum that his alpha lovingly tasted, making his body vibrate with delicious refinements of cruelty, just enough to keep him from going mad, only increasing the flame of desire that was already burning in his body, inflaming every pore of his body with lascivious desire.

"Alpha... my alpha!”

John stammered, his eyes fluttering in his sockets and a strangled noise coming out from his throat as the alpha swallowed him whole, wet, exquisite heat making his body shake.

It was not too long, and John was pouring his pleasure into Sherlock's mouth, his lips releasing pornographic groans that reverberated around the room as an additive to the alpha's delight, which delighted himself in satisfying his omega.

But the omega wanted more than that, he felt a void inside him, a void that needed to be filled. John roared, the heat coming back harder than he imagined it was possible, and lost in his haze of lust he plunged his heels into the bed lifting his hips, his neck hunched back as his fingers willingly circled his wet hole.

 _Oh fuck, fuck, fuck!_  John was so wet.

The alpha snarled as he saw the omega giving pleasure to himself, inserting his fingers into his relaxed, soaked, and loose hole.

The position was not favorable, and his omega could not get the depth he needed to feel really fulfilled and satisfied.

The omega’s world spun, when suddenly he found himself being overturned in bed by the great hands of his alpha, his sweaty face buried in the pillow, his alpha lifting his hip making John’s ass in the air impudently. The omega not feeling no piece of shame at being exhibiting in this way for the visual pleasure of his alpha.

The alpha spread his cheeks, nipped the skin of John’s ass in a delicious way, and then John only knew how to scream and squirm because his alpha was licking him deliciously in his most private place, sucking and thrusting tongue and fingers into his hole more and more soaked.

The alpha wrapped his free hand around John's small thick cock, which had not softened even after the first orgasm, and only a few strokes well timed with the penetration of alpha’s tongue and John was gushing like fireworks, one, two, three times, moaning profusely.

The alpha, however, could not wait another second. All was said and done, and he would take his omega now.

Trapping the omega to the mattress, not hard, but still firmly, the alpha pushed his huge cock inside of omega’s wet hole. The omega moaned in relief, feeling that it was finally complete, full. His alpha was so big inside him, so perfect.

Sherlock had not thought coherently enough to go slow, not when his omega began to demand that he be deeper, faster, hard, more, more, more... Then the alpha obeyed the omega’s demands, pumping in and out, in and out feverishly. 

 “Mine!” The alpha growled, snaking a possessive hand over the belly of his omega, the large palm rubbing in a circular shape.

 “I'll mark you... I'll give you my knot... I'll make you swell so big with my puppies! Everyone will see that you are mine. Mine, mine, mine.”

The alpha licked and sucked at John's neck, eager to bite.

The omega yelled with pleasure as his alpha pushed his cock into him, loving the fervor with which the way that those cock was making shocks of pleasure reverberate through every cell of his body. 

"I am your, yes, yours, oh God, my Alpha, only yours! Please fill me with your seed, give me your knot, make me grow with your puppies.” The omega babbled, far away of any reason.

“Oh...!” He shouted again, squirming eagerly, swirling over Sherlock's giant cock, trembling with pleasure at the warm mouth on his neck. He tilted his head to give to Sherlock better access.

The cries of pleasure of his omega made the alpha growl, flinging himself with more impetus, penetrating harder, faster, thrusting so enthusiastically into the willing body, loving the sounds of their bodies pounding, feeling the delicious glide of the hot wet John’s fluids that gushing and leaking from his violated entrance. 

“Oh my Omega, you're so tight, so wet, just for me...   _Just-for-me_.” The alpha punctuated every word with a push of his cock. The alpha punctuated every word with a jerk from his cock.

"Oh, oh my alpha!"

John screamed as he felt the swelling inside him, the knot growing inside his hole. John's eyes widened and his breath caught, then he felt the bite on her neck, and it was all white and blinding light, his cum came out like a car crash, as the knot fits into a part of him so deep and unexplored. He could feel their union.

He moaned in ecstasy, shaking all over, and felt his alpha trembling jerkily on top of him, gushing his seed profusely.

"I love you..." John said as he managed to catch his breath, a little sanity coming back to him after he had treated the first heat wave properly.

Sherlock lay them both down in bed carefully to not hurt John, making them stand side by side now, John's back against Sherlock's chest, they bodies still tied by the alpha's knot.

Sherlock licked, sniffed, and nibbled on the omega’s neck bite. The omega purred with lethargic pleasure.

"Can you feel this...?" John asked a few minutes later.

Sherlock's hands went to John's belly, stroking the womb of his omega and moaning with pleasure.

"More than one..." John growled, lost in contentment.

“How many...?” The alpha asked, surprised.

It was not so common to get multiples in the first heat, but given that John had been suppressed for all his life, his omega appeared to be especially fertile. His alpha growled with joy.

John could feel himself attuned to his body, and he could not explain how he knew it, but his omega could tell by him.

“Three puppies, three puppies my alpha...”

“Our puppies... Our little puppies!” The alpha repeated cheerfully, until another wave of heat seized the small body of his omega.

The alpha snarled with satisfaction, knowing that from that moment John would be his forever, and that John would give him what was most beautiful in the world: a family to honor and love, all the days of his life. 

 

**End...**


End file.
